


The Golden Egg

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Easter Egg Hunt, First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning After, Mutual Pining, Picnic, Pining, Requited Love, Trans Female Character, minor parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: John and Watson are everything to Sherlock, but he knows that he's not everything to them. He worries that one day he'll lose John. Turns out, John's worried about losing him.





	The Golden Egg

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to get this up on actual Easter Sunday, but that just didn't happen. Also, this had been intended as a fun, cracky smut fic with bunny-ears sex, but that also did not happen. Maybe I'll write a short PWP sequel.

Mrs Hudson bought the bunny ears. She was always trying to force him into novelty headwear. 

 

Sherlock would have objected except for two things. John, and Watson. John, good father that he was, donned them willingly, and Watson refused to take hers off, getting into character and hopping about all day like a small, ash-blonde rabbit. Sherlock had long ago found that he was equally as helpless in the face of his goddaughter as he was when her father gave him a look from his admiring blue eyes. 

 

There were tails too. Of course there were tails. Damn John Watson for allowing his daughter to pin one to his trousers. Did he have any idea how appallingly cute he was dressed as a rabbit?

 

Moodily, Sherlock sipped his second mimosa and let his eyes track John, who was looking stunningly beautiful in the spring sunshine of a perfectly lovely Easter Sunday. He was surrounded by an admiring crowd of forty-something mums and divorcees-- _ why _ did Harry Watson know so many unattached straight women--and holding court with his usual charm. John wasn’t particularly successful with women when he was trying, but when he didn’t try...he seduced effortlessly. Of course, a good-looking, educated, employed, and devoted widowed father was like catnip in the dating world.

 

Sherlock’s brooding was interrupted by Watson, who ran up, full of a six-year old’s excitement and hopped up on sugar. She flung herself against him and wrapped skinny arms around his legs, “Uncle Sherlock, will you come help me look for the golden egg?”

 

“What’s the golden egg?” He asked, holding his champagne flute away from himself in an attempt to keep from spilling. Harry had been sober for years, but she served good alcohol at her parties. It was a big part of the reason why he agreed to come to these functions. Well, that and because Watson begged and he was historically bad at saying no to her.

 

“Auntie Grace hid a golden egg somewhere and it has tickets to see the new Disney movie...Joss and I want to go, but she’s not allowed to find it in case anyone thinks her mum is playing favourites, so I have to find it.”

 

Grace, Harry’s girlfriend, had been married for nearly sixteen years before she came out as trans and ended up divorcing her very understanding but very straight wife, and beginning the process of transitioning. She’d surprised herself by finding romance with Harry Watson, a coworker at the huge international corporation they both worked for, but had not had much socialisation with before. Grace had two children from her former marriage; a sulky fourteen year old son, Daniel, who thankfully hadn’t inflicted himself on the party today, and a loud and boisterous, but very sharp-witted and gifted nine year old daughter, Jocelyn. She and Watson were as thick as thieves and it was typical for them to spend as much time as possible together. 

 

“Can’t your father just take you to see the movie?” Sherlock was willing to do many things for, and with, Watson, but enduring the mindless drivel of children’s movies was not one of them.

 

“It’s a special premiere and there’s princess crowns and a VIP pass and everything,” Watson explained, bouncing on her toes. She tugged at his sleeve with a placating hand, then slipped her little fingers into his palm. Tipping her head back, bunny ears askew, she begged, “Pleeeeease? The golden egg is special.”

 

“Very well,” Sherlock said, polishing off his mimosa and adjusting his bunny ears. He took her slightly sticky, hot little hand and they walked around the back garden of Harry and Grace’s Mayfair house--international finance law was  _ very _ lucrative--sharp eyes scanning the space for clues. “There, I think, Watson,” he nudged her in the direction of a large urn style planter in the northwest corner of the flagstone area which held a small, burbling fountain. “See the freshly overturned potting soil on the flagstones? And the way the greenery bulges farther out on one side than the other? Look there.”

 

Her happy shrieks greeted his ears with proof of her success, and he smirked to himself, watching as Watson clutched the oversized gold egg to the chest of her smocked Easter dress and rushed across the emerald lawn toward Jocelyn. “Well done, Uncle Sherlock,” John muttered, coming up beside him, “Way to help a six year old cheat the system.”

 

Sherlock glanced at him, wondering if John was truly displeased, but his friend was smiling as he watched their girl do a little victory dance around the egg. He snorted a laugh, “When’s the last time either of us got that excited?”

 

“You were fairly insufferable when the latest Avengers movie was announced.”

 

“Fair point.” John bumped his arm with his shoulder, “I seem to recall you strutting about cock-o-the-walk when your article about ash was accepted by that online academic review.”

 

Sherlock blushed. He  _ had _ been rather vain. Although he’d also been rather brilliant and it was high time someone appreciated his years of dedication to identifying ash. John, who had delighted for years in teasing him about his ash index, had been pleased for him, and they’d gone for a celebratory dinner at Angelo’s. John had been unbearably beautiful in the candlelight, eyes fond, attention one hundred percent on Sherlock, unfettered in his words of praise.

 

The sun was beginning to set as the gathering started breaking up a few hours later. John offered to stay and help clean up, but Grace and Harry waved him off; they had the cleaner coming the next day, they were perfectly capable of putting the leftovers away. “You two want any food to take with you?” Harry asked, hand hovering over the stack of plastic containers in the kitchen cupboard. She glanced at Sherlock, “I know how fond you are of the dilled salmon spread, Sherlock, and we’ve got loads…?”

 

“We’d love some, thanks,” John agreed for both of them, and willingly accepted deviled-ham finger sandwiches, pickles, charcuterie and smoked cheese, and a giant container of sugar cookies and chocolate-orange cheesecake. “That’s us done for the week,” he said appreciatively, hefting the reusable shopping bag, “Thanks.” He raised his voice for Watson, but when the girls appeared they begged for the younger girl to be allowed to stay the night.

 

Arguments that it was a school night were weak; they all knew John would acquiesce, he always did. Tonight was no different, Rose had plenty of clothes in the wardrobe in Jocelyn’s room, and they attended the same Montessori school, Harry and Grace argued pleasantly.  “I’ll walk them to school,” Harry said comfortably, “and Grace and I can bring her home after tea.”

 

“Weeell,” John was softening. Sherlock knew he worried about Watson being too surrounded by adults at Baker street, and that he liked her having a friend-cousin-sister in Jocelyn. It was Sherlock’s greatest fear that one day John would find some willing single mother or divorced mum and set about obtaining a ready-made family for Watson. A family other than the one they’d cobbled together out of need and loneliness and loyalty.

 

Their cab ride home was pleasantly quiet; John seemed introspective, and Sherlock was moody, but determined not to sink into yet another John-based depression. No use borrowing trouble. John and Watson were his for now and that was all he could ask for.

 

Back at the flat John put away the leftovers and stared at the kettle, as if unsure whether or not to make a cuppa. “I’m still kinda full, what about you? Maybe we can nibble off this stuff later if we get hungry.”

 

Sherlock shrugged; he’d gotten better about eating regularly, but John, in his opinion, was far more obsessed with food than necessary. “If you like.”

 

“Drink?” John asked, walking away from the kettle and toward the small selection of liquor they kept on a high shelf in the built-ins. “Cognac?”

 

Settling into their chairs as they had so often over the many years of their friendship, they raised their glasses at one another. “Happy Easter, Sherlock,” John said warmly, smiling at him, “thanks for coming today...I know kids’ parties aren’t your favourite, but it makes Rose so happy to have you there.”

 

Waving it off, Sherlock returned John’s smile, reaching for a feeling of ease, not wanting to mar their rare night alone with melancholy. “Of course, John. Anything for Watson, you know that.”

 

John’s smile was tender, “I  _ do _ know that. Don’t know if you know what it means to me, knowing that you’ll always be there for our girl if anything…”

 

“Why should anything happen to you?” Sherlock asked sharply, sitting upright, eyes scanning John keenly. Was there something wrong? Something he hadn’t seen, that John had kept from him?

 

John seemed a bit startled at his vehemency, and Sherlock sat back, reminding himself to reign it in before he gave the game away. After all these years it would be ridiculous to reveal his hopeless love because he’d allowed himself to become too emotional. “No,” John assured him, eyes tracking Sherlock’s face as if he was trying to read him. “I just...start thinking about the future sometimes. Rose is getting older, and so am I. So are all of us. I just...if something  _ did _ happen to me, it’s comforting to know that you’d be a father to her.”

 

“I could never replace what you are to her,” Sherlock said, voice low and passionate, “but of course I’d be the closest thing to a father to her that I could. Nothing is going to happen to you, though. I won’t allow it.”

 

“If anyone could do it you could,” John said, fond. He finished his drink, licked his lips. “D’you ever...think of the future? Of what’s to happen to all three of us?”

 

“Why should anything happen?” Sherlock knew he was being sulky, but he didn’t like John talking about the future this way. If he couldn’t have what he most dearly wanted--and he couldn’t--then he wanted things to remain unchanging, always. 

 

“Just...if it does…” John shrugged, looking away into the empty fireplace. “I think about it sometimes, if it wasn’t always the three of us...if you left…”

 

“If _ I _ left?” Sherlock looked at him, completely floored. “John, I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“Well, 221B is your home,” John agreed, missing the point, “I didn’t mean you’d go anywhere physically. But...what if--what if you meet someone? Fall--fall in love.”

 

Utterly stunned, Sherlock just stared at him for a moment, unable to process. “So help me, John,” he began, growing angry, “If you even mention Irene Adler--”

 

John held up a placating hand, “Not--not her, just, there could be s-someone, some day.”

 

About to lambast his best friend for his persistence in believing that Sherlock had any interest whatsoever in Irene, Sherlock was struck suddenly by the look of unease on John’s face, the way he avoided Sherlock’s eyes. In a flash he was swept by the belief that John was afraid of losing him, of losing what they had.  _ He holds it as dear as I do,  _ Sherlock thought, stunned. 

 

“You could fall in love,” John said, low, eyes downcast.

 

It took every ounce of courage Sherlock had to do what he did next. Not even when he’d faced Moriarity on that rooftop had he felt so terrified of what came next. Putting down his scarcely touched cognac, he scooted to the edge of his seat and reached hesitantly to put his hand on John’s knee. John looked up, eyes shadowed, and Sherlock stepped off the ledge for the second time in his life, not knowing if he would land safely, or if he’d lose John Watson for the second time. “I already have.”

 

The words landed softly between them into the sudden yawning silence. Both men sat unmoving for a long moment and then just as Sherlock thought he might break from the tension, John’s hand came to cover his over his knee. Fingers tight, shaking, John asked in a voice saturated with desperate hope, “Sherlock…?”

 

“It’s you, John,” Sherlock answered the unasked question, fear leaving him as he spoke his heart for the first time. “It’s always been you, from the first. Only I was too afraid of the mere idea of it to even let you close--and then when I realized just how much I’d come to love you, to need you, it was too late.” He stopped, throat tight, heart still beating too fast.

 

John’s head dipped and he brought their clasped hands up to his lips. Pressing them fervently to Sherlock’s palm, which he’d tenderly raised to his view, he spoke in a throbbing voice, “Christ, Sherlock, how much time we’ve wasted!”

 

“Not wasted,” Sherlock denied, although it was true, the lost years ached between them. “I...wouldn’t have been ready for any of this, not at first.”

 

John finally looked at him, eyes damp, fierce in their love, “Neither would I...I couldn’t even admit to myself for fucking years how I felt about you. Too scared--too used to denying there was anything “gay” about me.” He laughed shortly, bringing his free hand up to rub roughly at his wet face, smearing the tears. “God, I want to kiss you. Is that, is that alright?”

 

“I’m not scared, John,” Sherlock assured him, although his heart was beating so hard it left him shaking. But it wasn’t fear, it was joy and anticipation and finally, finally having what he’d wanted within reach. He slipped down into the space between them, on his knees at John’s feet, took both of John’s small, square, capable hands between his own. Holding them tightly, he looked into his beloved face, “I’m shaking because I want to kiss you so badly.”

 

“What’s stopping you?” John asked hoarsely, and Sherlock let go of his hands and they reached for one another at the same time, pulling the other close, shaking arms locking tight. John’s lips were on his, salty with tears, smoky with the taste of cognac and so, so perfect. Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest, and he gasped. “What?” John asked instantly, freezing. He tried to pull away, “Is it too much? Do you not want to--”

 

“John. Shush,” Sherlock snapped in exasperation. He ignored John’s look of guilt warring with indignation at being shushed and took a steadying breath, “It was simply...so much all at once. You, here with me like this the way I haven’t even let myself dream.” He pressed his forehead to John’s, confessed softly, “Hard to believe I get to do this.”

 

John melted, pulling him close, warm hands rubbing his back soothingly, “I know, Sherlock, believe me. It feels unreal to me too.”

 

They swayed, embracing, until some of Sherlock’s tremors had subsided, and then John turned his head and pressed a soft, damp kiss to Sherlock’s neck, “You have the loveliest neck,” he confessed, trailing his lips over the sensitive skin.

 

Sherlock gasped soundlessly, pulse stuttering, cock thickening. He was unbearably aroused, and if John kept it up much longer he feared he might embarrass himself prematurely. “John…”

 

“Hmm?” John inquired, lazily lipping at the tendons in Sherlock’s neck. He tilted Sherlock’s head to the side and swept his tongue lightly up the length of his neck and closed his lips softly over the lobe of Sherlock’s ear, earning himself another gasp, this one not so soundless. “What is it, love?”

 

“John...will you take me to bed?”

 

John stilled, his fingers tightening on Sherlock’s body, and he worried that it had been too much, too needy, too demanding, too “gay.” But then John pulled back and framed his face with his hands, and his face lit up with the most glorious smile, “Are you--  _ Christ _ \--Sherlock, are you sure?”

 

“I am not,” Sherlock said with some asperity and a bit of embarrassed frustration, “actually a virgin, you know. It’s been, erm, I admit a long, long time since I actually--”

 

John kissed him softly, a sweet kiss, “You don’t owe me any explanations, Sherlock. Of course you know your own mind. I just...I want you so badly that I’m a little afraid of it, and I didn’t want you to see that and think you had to do anything you weren’t ready for.”

 

“The same goes for you,” Sherlock told him, rising to his feet and pulling John up along with him, “unless I’m very much mistaken, you’ve never been with a man before.”

 

“You’ll have to show me,” John told him, holding tight to his hand as they walked together toward Sherlock’s room by mutual, unspoken agreement, “show me how to love you.”

 

“John,” Sherlock stopped and looked at him in soft amazement, “you already know how to do that.”

 

“Oh love,” John breathed, starry-eyed, and pulled him close, kissing him as if his life depended on it, “come let me love you.” He tumbled Sherlock softly through the doorway and they fell tangled onto the bed, hearts beating fast, hands eager, hungry. “Let me love you....”

  
  


\------------------------------------------------------

  
  


John lay on his side, head propped on his bent arm, watching the beautiful sight of Sherlock sleeping peacefully. The sun was just beginning to rise above the buildings, and the pink-tinged light flooded the bedroom softly. The tall windows were open and a faint breeze moved the sage green curtains dreamily. There was, in fact, a very dreamy quality to the entire scene. John had pinched his thigh when he awoke, head on Sherlock’s shoulder, just to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamt it all.

 

It was real though. Fucking amazingly, perfectly real. Heart clenching happily, John rested his hand on Sherlock’s chest, counting his steady heartbeat, eyes tracking fondly over his slack features. He wanted very badly to kiss Sherlock awake and bring him to a soft climax, see his face glowing with love and pleasure the way it had the night before. Face warming at the memories, John eased onto his pillow and rubbed Sherlock’s sternum lightly. In the grand scheme of things it had probably been the tamest first time ever, and certainly nothing wild compared to his own youth. But it had been more than the sum of its parts. 

 

Fumbling and blushing, hands shaking, lips eager, they’d found their way together to a gentle, rocking pleasure. Maybe frottage wasn’t the hottest thing ever, but with Sherlock it had been. John had been all nerves and excitement, soaring heart and trembling hands and desire. Sherlock, who confessed after that it had been “ages” since he’d enjoyed an orgasm, had come first, back arching, tumbled curls splaying across the pillow, face ecstatic. John had held him through it, whispering how much he loved him, how beautiful he was, how perfect. His own release had seemed unimportant in the face of it, but that hadn’t lasted long. Once Sherlock had caught his breath he’d pulled John more firmly against his body and held him tightly, urging him to thrust against his slick belly and groin, until John had come with a long groan, face dropping to the damp cave of Sherlock’s gorgeous throat.

 

“I can feel you thinking,” Sherlock murmured, not opening his eyes. His hand found John’s where it was lightly petting him and he held it firmly, bringing John’s fingers up to kiss each one. Opening his eyes he searched John’s face keenly, but almost immediately relaxed, as if he’d been half-afraid of what he would see there.

 

“Only good thoughts,” John assured him, curling his fingers to brush Sherlock’s voluptuous mouth, because he couldn’t  _ not _ touch him. “Promise.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth curved again into that shy, proud smile he’d worn the night before when they’d finally had their long overdue talk. “You’re smiling,” he accused softly, lipping delicately at John’s fingertips. 

 

“Pretty sure I haven’t stopped since last night,” John said, smiling more broadly. He desperately wanted to pull Sherlock to him, roll over onto his back and feel the other man’s perfect weight on top of him. But he was more used to taking the lead, being “on top” so to speak, and he didn’t quite know how to breach the invisible line to this new territory. “Not sure I’ll be stopping any time soon, to be honest.”

 

“I’m glad,” Sherlock said, rolling onto his side and pulling John closer. He dipped his head and kissed him, soft, succulent kisses which went directly to John’s head, and his cock. Sherlock, feeling John grow hard against his thigh, growled softly under his breath and leaned more fully over him, his right arm sliding behind John’s shoulders, his left hand coming up to tangle in his hair. John’s breath came fast and shallow, as he felt excitement and arousal mount inside him. Tugging a little, he pulled at Sherlock, until his chest was pressed against his own, pressing him down into the bed. “Oh?” Sherlock queried, pulling his face back a bit to assess John’s expression. “Yes?”

 

“Yeah,” John agreed a bit raggedly, and exhaled in relief and satisfaction when Sherlock rolled to fully cover him in his delicious weight. They settled into the mattress, bodies aligning perfectly. John held Sherlock tightly, winding one leg around his lower thighs, pulling him close. It wasn’t even about the sex (although he was really, really interested in that) but he just craved him; his skin, his heat, his smell. “God, I love you,” John groaned, tugging lightly at Sherlock’s lower lip with the sweet suction of his mouth.

 

Groaning wordlessly, Sherlock framed his face in his hands and tilted his head, getting serious about the kiss. He arranged John to his liking--making him giggle--and proceeded to  _ devour _ his mouth. John gasped helplessly, arching his hips, seeking contact; Sherlock was still mostly wrapped in the sheet, and he pulled at it in frustration, needing skin to skin contact. Sherlock helped him by rising awkwardly to his knees, and together they jerked the material away and fell upon one another. John thrilled to the hot press of Sherlock’s naked flesh--so very hot and so very hard--against his own, and took his arse in both hands to hold him tightly to him. “You good with this?” John panted.

 

Grunting, Sherlock nodded, hips moving sinuously against him. They were both still slightly sticky from the night prior, and John laved his palm with spit before he worked it between their bodies and took them both in hand. Sherlock shuddered helplessly, mouth falling open, and he dropped his head to John’s shoulder, sighing his name. 

 

“Feel good, love?”

 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his damaged shoulder, tongue darting to taste the scar-tissue, “Is this alright?”

 

John groaned out a laugh, incredibly turned on not only by the ceaseless rolling of Sherlock’s hips, but by his insatiable curiosity. It was one of the things which had first fascinated him about the younger man--how fascinated  _ he _ seemed with  _ John _ in turn. John, who had felt so very lonely, drab and invisible until he met this incredible man, “Very alright…”

 

After that there were no more words. Only sighs, deep moans and broken pleading of the other’s name. It was John who came first this time, thrilling down deep in his soul at the heavy weight over him, the hungry kisses, Sherlock’s restless hands. Arching into his own fist, John shuddered helplessly, feeling his release flood the tight space between them. Sherlock choked off a cry and came immediately after, voice hoarse and desperate in his ear. He hung over him for a minute, until John coaxed him to relax, and then he draped bonelessly, sprawling on John, who welcomed the weight. He stroked loving hands down Sherlock’s damp back, nuzzled the curls at his ear, softly kissed his cheek, until Sherlock recovered his breath and turned his head, capturing his lips in his own. 

 

Panting softly, they lay tangled in the damp sheets, legs sprawled, sticky groins pressed to one another’s hips. John had never felt less like showering, though he could probably use a good wash a this point. But it would be like washing away the joy of the night and morning, washing away something sacred which had cemented the bond between them.

 

“You like my weight over you,” Sherlock said some time later, not really a question.

 

John was quiet for a minute, still petting his curls, running his fingers through them to feel the silky weight curl hungrily around his fingers, scratching lightly at Sherlock’s scalp. “It feels good,” he finally said. “I could hold you like this all day.”

 

“I’m not too much for you?” Sherlock asked, voice uncharacteristically small and unsure.

 

John heard the unspoken question,  _ are you sure _ this _ isn’t too much for you?  _ “It’s all perfect,” he soothed, tipping Sherlock’s face up and kissing him sweetly, rubbing the tip of his nose teasingly over Sherlock’s, until a reluctant smile tipped up the other man’s mouth. _ “You’re  _ perfect.”

 

“Hardly that,” Sherlock scoffed, but he relaxed again, and John caught sight of his shy, pleased smile. 

 

“I promise you,” John said softly, catching his eye, “none of this is too much for me. I want it all.”

 

“I think I can promise you everything and more,” Sherlock vowed, kissing him softly as they rolled in the bed in the perfect sunshine of a spring day. The first day of the rest of their lives together.


End file.
